


Fallen From Light

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Canon Related, Eventual Romance, Exo Warlock Guardian, F/M, Fallen (Destiny) - Freeform, Lore - Freeform, Recovery, Slow Burn, The Light (Destiny), The Traveler (Destiny) - Freeform, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-08-28 09:35:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16720845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: "The closest rendition any of the Fallen have been to the Light of the Great Machine for over seven hundred years. A Guardian and their Ghost."---The Guardian's feats of impossible power and courage strikes inspiration among the Fallen to seek the Light. Variks the Loyal refuses to accept the belief that the Traveler could ever bestow its gifts upon his violent kin.





	1. Exposition

**Author's Note:**

> i've been itching to write a reader slow burn fic for a while... might as well write about the one and only variks the loyal whom i love very much ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ welcome and enjoy your stay and come back for updates

After the incident known as the Collapse, when tendrils of darkness collected and collapsed living planets, the suddenly homeless fled as quickly as possible. The asteroid belt between giant planets became their mass graveyard.

The Reef: the last, sane sandbar before an endless ocean of stars. The starlit Awoken are born here. The Queen and the Prince, and their chitinous Wolves, rule here. Alliances and enemies were re-forged depending on the current circumstances. Guardians grind their Light in the far reaches of darkness so it blazes brighter than ever.

Traveling to the Reef is meant to be a choice of free will. There is no other way to overcome the beauty and allure of the violet, violent shades of the void.

* * *

“I mean,” Cayde-6 mutters, scratching his horn, “this isn’t your typical distress signal.”

Zavala agrees somewhat reluctantly. The Titan folds his arms across his chest. “To request one of our Guardians. The circumstances-- and the means of message-- are beyond the ordinary.”

Ikora Rey says nothing.

The Vanguard scrutinize the thick, blue-hued swords and their rusted hilts, even too bulky for Zavala to wield. They instantly recognize the weapons brandished by the merciless Fallen Captains. Typically meant for bloodshed, not summons. However, the swords were swathed in emerald green fabric, and tucked neatly between them, was a simple recording modulator on a droning repeat every few minutes.

Through brief static, the husk of a voice crawls across distances of lightyears. “ _This past Festival, came an Exo Warlock. Silent. Painted. Brink of Voidwalker. Return demanded on behalf of the Queen._ ” A brief pause. Then the voice re-emerges, this time in a silky growl. “ _Wolves… dead by the dozens, hmm. No other way. Come fix mistakes. Come listen._ ”

Ikora’s hands ball into fists. Her Ghost, Ophiuchus, blinks gently and the human does, too, willing away the too-familiar inklings of rage. She tucks her hands behind her back. Perhaps the others are aware of her quiet fury. Perhaps they do not want to acknowledge it.

“How did it even arrive at the Tower?” Zavala asks.

Cayde-6 whirrs as he leans his elbows on the table. “Postal mail. Can you believe?” Without looking up from the swords, he says, “A Warlock makin’ messes in the Reef. Not the first time. But to be summoned by the Awoken Queen--”

“Not summoned,” Ikora says stiffly. “Demanded.”

“They gave us a pretty lousy description, though am I right to assume it’s the Exo with a little splash of yellow on her cheek? The one whose Ghost speaks for her?” Cayde-6 asks somberly. He’s too familiar with broken voice modulators, especially rampant among newer Exos.

“Yes. But the decision does not belong to us,” she says grimly. “It belongs to the Guardian. We can only assume that the Queen wants her to take responsibility for the Fallen’s misfortune. The Reef is far from the Traveler, and even closer to the void of deep space-- and my Warlock is _not_ ready. Not yet."

 _Brink of Voidwalker_. Ikora wonders how much this snake-like voice knows about the Guardian; she thought she alone knew about the flickering doubt among her wards.

The Awoken Titan sighs, allowing his unusual, sparking gaze to drift across the table. “We must consider the powers at play. Queen Mara and her followers are a significant benefactor for many of our Guardians. Let your Warlock face her and correct the situation to the best of her ability. When she emerges, she will be stronger for herself and the Tower. There is no growth without adversity.”

And because Ikora Rey is a Voidwalker, and because being one with the Void requires complete and absolute faith in the uncertain, she finally agrees.

* * *

Amethyst-born Petra Venj, who dresses in colors of her birthplace, glances over to tattered furs and verdant banners.

The Eliksni interlaces his hands over and over again, never quite settling on a preference. Left over right. Right over left. Organics tucked against his abdomen. Must have a tighter hold on the Devil’s staff, battle-worn and more importantly, battle- _won_. He does not realize that he mutters aloud while Petra bites back a smile and plays with her dagger.

Variks the Loyal stiffens slightly as her one-eyed gaze eventually settles under his skin like a winter’s chill. “What do you look at, Petra Venj?” he demands.

“Hardly two lunar cycles have passed,” she says, grinning openly now, “and yet you’re rattled by a Guardian. Does House Judgement know no confidence?”

Variks snarls and cracks the staff against the deck angrily. Petra merely raises an eyebrow; she is completely unfazed. As quickly as his temper flares, his shoulders shift and sink as his ire gives way. And then he is back to fumbling with his four limbs. Right over left. Left over right. “Do well to _listen_ ,” Variks mutters. “Rather than spout lies. House Judgement waits cautiously. The Warlock has… influence.”

“Influence. Right.” The Awoken makes no attempt to disguise her disbelief. She glides her thumb across the floating dagger, ignoring Varik’s intense gaze at the display of power. _Telekinesis,_ some whisper. _Starlit,_ others claim. “What sort of influence? Power? Skill?”

The Fallen releases one of his clawed limbs from indecisiveness and gestures inward. “ _Within._ Promises of the Great Machine.”

“Yeah. All these Guardians, in and out of the outpost, and this one manages to start a cult.”

“She does not know.” Variks grumbles.

“So what? Kill her and be done with it. I’ve got patrols to run.” The floating silver blade trembles, and then falls into her ready grasp, moments before Variks’s claw flashes in an attempt to nab the weapon. Petra smiles thinly, though mirth does not reach her eye. She jabs the hilt in the Eliksni’s direction accusingly. “You think she deserves an explanation. A chance for redemption. Why else would you petition the Queen?”

A low, crafty growl shivers through his frame. “We shall find out, yes?” Variks purrs.


	2. Vox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guardian and the Ghost arrives at the outpost.

Your Ghost gives you a once-over, rechecks your armor and equipment, and then transmats the two of you into the outpost hangar. Your sudden appearance, however ordinary at the Tower, startles a few bots out of their script and they crash into each other, chattering with more voice that you could ever claim.

You hold out your hand for the Ghost to perch upon and it transmats away your helmet. The light cores in your mouth flash in a familiar pattern. “Yes, he’s here.” Vox waits for your next stream of questions. “Yes, of course I recognized his voice. He tries to disassemble me every time you fawn over his banners. Yes, _fawn_ over. No, I will not amend my statement.”

The shadow of the Eliksni known as Variks spills across your petite frame. “Welcome,” he greets, hunkering down in a somewhat formal bow. His voice resembles an overheated exhaust: grating, rough, and on the brink of malfunction. “Welcome to you _both_.”

His gait is awkward and slow as he walks next to the Guardian; his limbs move jerkily, balance uneven and heavily reliant on the staff. He feels the eyes of the Crows on his back. He ignores their curiosity and ushers them through the markets, then past a distressed curtain of Judgement banners.

Crushed glimmer and small bird bones whisper into dust under their feet. Variks’s home resembles a cargo hold: narrow and with a vaulted ceiling, giving off a cavernous impression. Empty ether canisters roll across the floor as he roughly shoves various crates out of his way, searching with his three arms while the fourth clings to the staff. His shadow stretches across the high walls, and your gaze is drawn to the shape of his ivory-white crown.

Variks spins round, ignoring how his staff sweeps another container to the disheveled floor. “Recognize this?” He tosses you a small, black box, and you catch it, ignoring the oil and grime ruining your gloves. There are open ports on all of its sides. It looks unimportant.

But Vox suddenly gasps. “A voice box? From the Golden Age?”

“Stripped from the Moon just last cycle.” His voice takes on a humorous tone. “Exiles claim to be the best scavengers. Judgement thinks, perhaps. If you are willing--”

You nod.

“--to complete a task for me,” Variks continues, swiftly plucking the black device out of your hand, “I may consider gifting it to you. Show me your Light.”

The Light knows the tortured pride that comes with silence, and today, in the far reaches of the Reef, it might allow you a sliver of hope. You extend your hand, the same one which held the voice box, and then close your eyes. Tendrils of golden dawn drip from your gauntlets. The amber liquid dissipates into an ether-like wisp, leaving behind a faint warmth in your entire body. You dive into your memories of the Traveler, silent and tortured and proud, in eternal watch over the City.

Variks passes his claws through the fading light. Afraid to touch the sun-bright flames, afraid it might burn him. When you open your eyes, Variks simply nods and then gestures over to a pallet stuffed with rages and collectibles. Above, a suspended shelf hangs precariously on thin wires. “Vox the Ghost,” he says quietly, “if you would chase away the appropriate panels, time being, hmm?”

The protective exoskeleton around your neck whisks away into a pocket dimension.

The Eliksni shuffles forward and places a firm, prosthetic hand on the back of your head. One of his other hands examine the neck cables under the wiring. “Excuse the pace, Guardian,” he chuckles darkly. “I see my kin’s marks on your voice.” He spends a few minutes studying the layout, murmuring in half-thought. Curious. Golden Age. Pitiful scavenge. Ruined.

You stiffen slightly as his claw snags and slices a few wires. You do not feel any pain-- his methodical tinkering feels more like prodding and poking. _Delicate operation,_ Variks whispers to himself. And then he gently coaxes the voice box free, displaying it proudly in the palm of his hand. By lamplight, the device has deep slashes and crushed ports. Variks places it on the shelf. Past the swaying, silver mesh mask, you can just glimpse a maw of short, razor-sharp fangs and a gray tongue. The tawny furs around his neck tickle your sensors and if you were anything but machine, you might have sneezed.

“Now listen,” Variks says as he works on the replacement, “to the reason you come here. Numerous reports of the Queen’s Wolves chasing early deaths. Dregs and Vandals seeking impossible opponents. Massive battles.”

Vox flickers in and out of its pocket dimensions, worried out of its mind even though it can heal you in a moment’s notice. It leaves pale trails of Light in the sporadic wake. “What does that have to do with the Guardian?” Vox asks.

“Her accomplishments have inspired fanatics,” Variks mutters, squinting past your cables. “Some believe the Great Machine will turn them into their stronger foes. Guardians like _you_.”

“A Fallen Guardian? Impossible.” Vox exclaims.

“As I said. Fanatics. Weak of willpower. They die and hope your Traveler will choose them.”

“But we’ve never talked to any Fallen besides you. How could we have--”

“Done plenty. Bringing the head of a Vex Gate Lord. Proving worth to the Queen and her brother. Power and loyalty to protect the Great Machine. Promises many things to Eliksni,” Variks says, eyeing the Ghost greedily. “A Captain died yesterday with this belief. Discovered with his own swords wedged in his throat.”

You recall the message sent to the Vanguard. So does Vox. “Oh.”

“Death means nothing to Guardians. The Eliksni seek death and hope to wake with a Ghost of their own.”

“We thought the Fallen wanted to claim the Traveler for their own,” Vox squeaks.

Variks bristles angrily. “Does the Great Machine belong to you? Its Light is a gift.”

Despite his intense tone, the claws within and on the back of your skull is as light as a feather. He glances down at you, and you think, _He could rip my head from my neck._

All Variks says is: “Not so simple, these labels you bestow. The Darkness, the Collapse, the _Fallen_ ,” he spits the last word, unwanted in his glossa. Maybe it is melancholia which burns in his bright eyes. He eventually refocuses on the voice box wires. Your Ghost shudders visibly in relief; Variks pretends not to notice. “The Guardian will speak. She will need her voice. There. Finished.” Vox immediately transmats the protective plate over your wiring.

You don’t remember how your voice sounded before it was destroyed centuries ago. Your light cores flash in an automatic response. Vox drifts a little closer. “Guardian?” There is so much hope in its voice. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

Static crackles like lightning. Vox flinches, and Variks bristles in surprise. Half a minute passes as you wrestle with the unfamiliar feeling of spoken word, channeling static and silence like a radio dial. A few vowels peek through the noise. Switch channels. Less emphasis on amplitude and frequency. Only clarity. Signal.

And thus, your voice is somewhat tinny and gravelly, lower than expected-- but it _works_.

“Hello, Vox,” you whisper. “My Little Light.”

Vox bumps against your chin. “ _Guardian._ ” Its soft glow warbles happily in the dark. You reach up and scratch against its own metal sheer, comforting its years of solitude and silence. You hum away the fritzing white noise until all that remains is you. Just you.

However many times Variks glimpses the phenomenon, it still strikes him with a wave of catharsis: a Guardian and their Ghost. The closest rendition any of the Fallen have been to the Light of the Great Machine for over seven hundred years.

* * *

With your vents slow and rhythmic, you feel the faint brush of furs against your skull plating. You slowly look up at the Eliksni who invited you into his home, who gifted you with a voice.

“Variks the Loyal.”

A slow clacking noise rattles from his mandibles, the sound not unlike dragging a wooden mallet across a xylophone or a spinal cord. A creaking sigh escapes from his seven-foot tall figure. “Yes, Guardian?” he rasps.

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Guardian. I admired your Light. It is… bright. Like your Ghost.” He studies the dormant Vox nestled under your stiff collar and a hopeful tone pitches in his voice. “When your deed is done, might I purchase it?”

“No, Variks.”

He shrugs. “Next time. Next time, I will make a better offer.” Variks is not offended. After all, he has asked hundreds of Guardians for their machine companions. “Now, you are a guest. Stay. Still.” One of his lower limbs reach forward and lightly taps against the paint streaked on the left side of your face. And then it goes to the other side of your face, a gentle, stroking motion.

The Eliksni places his head next to yours and takes a very soft, slow breath. You recognize the shape of his claws as they dig heavily into your thigh as he supports himself against your seated form. This is not the first time he has found your scent-- a formal, ritualistic gesture that borders on _intimate_ and _invasive_. Blunt chitin scrapes over your brow and the sensation is, least to say, jarring.

You want to speak to him freely. But his touch lingers like a phantom. Control falters. “Vari- _izzzt_ -iks,” you struggle to say, “Vari- _izzzzzzt_ -iks.”

The Eliksni brashly knocks his helmet against your skull, dull vibrations shocking you for a moment. “Reclaim yourself, Guardian,” he orders.

“Variks--” you rasp at last, flinging out your question before it dissolves in white noise. “Do you believe that the Traveler… your Great Machine… could choose a Fallen as a protector of Light?”

It catches him off guard. The claws sink a little deeper, though Variks can’t bruise your flesh. He knows this much about Exos. “When the universe collapsed,” he relents, “my people learned to welcome Darkness. We thieved and killed our kin. So we were punished for our nature. The Great Machine will not heed the Fallen’s desperate sacrifices. The Light does not love us. No, it does not love us.”


	3. Fallen From Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guardian does some research on the history of House of Wolves.

As Sentha 55-30 prints out a permit for a semi-permanent hangar space, Berg 99-40 encourages you to look through the week’s bounties. The Reef echoes the Tower with its people, however strangely built or allied. Color-coded fireteams rush through the outpost with Petra Venj as their wrathful leader. Glimmer and engrams exchange hands. All that is missing is the Vanguard and the Traveler.

You glance outward. Massive ships drift aimlessly around the outpost, reminiscent of hopes and dreams. Humanity might have sought new homes from the Darkness, but their failure established a new kind of refuge. Awoken. Distant. Shivering cold. On the cusp of Light, when it gives way into its shadow. It becomes the Void, which always manages to escape your studies.

The Postmaster hands you a yellow parking sticker. [Enjoy your day,] it trills, and so does the Bounty Tracker. You hastily download a few challenges into your log--Cosmodrone Patrol, New Monarchy excavations-- and then head back to the bay. Once you’ve spotted the dinged-up Wanderwing amidst the other ships, Vox transmats you into the pilot’s seat. You immediately flick a switch and black out the windows. No need for onlookers.

“Guardian, have you thought about what you’re going to do?” it asks nervously as you walk towards the narrow hold. The space is spotless, thanks to a certain Ghost’s obsession with order and cleanliness. You hit a couple of buttons and wall panels slide open: the closet and a mattress. Vox continues, “What Variks said sounds impossible. I mean, how could the Fallen be Guardians in the first place?”

You discard your gauntlets and robe, and toss them on the cot. Within moments, Vox transmats them on the coat hangers. You start to lace up a more comfortable, older set of clothes. Black and gold-trimmed for casual socials rather than Crucible matches. “The Traveler visited their world before ours, Vox,” you remind.

“Yeah, but the Fallen hates us.”

“Variks likes us.”

“Variks only likes us when he wants you to buy something. You spend an inordinate amount of glimmer at his shop.”

You swivel your gaze to the Ghost. “I do not.” The lack of inflection in your new voice makes you sound like a droning sweeper bot. Vox winks mischievously. You try again, and manage a little indignation. “Variks found a working voice box from the Golden Age. You know as well as I do that they’re rarer than green glimmer.”

“And?”

“And--” you fidget with a Bond that looks like it could shatter into a million jigsaw pieces-- “he’s Fallen. They have Houses, a system of ranks and standards, morality, and a similar era of technological breakthroughs. There is potential for a stable society, except all they want to do is wage war and scavenge machines. Variks is Fallen, but he’s _different_.”

Vox whirrs angrily. “Different does not mean _honest_ ,” it says, but its frustration is overwhelmed by fear; you note a slight tone of panic in its soft, lyrical voice.

The relationship between a Guardian and their Ghost is indescribable. Most choose to develop the bond through love and ambition. Few believe that a responsibility to the Light requires no emotional attachments-- and yet, there are those few scattered across the solar system. No matter what, the Guardian and the Ghost needed to trust each other.

You sit down on the cot, sinking on the padded blankets and pillows. “Vox,” you say softly, and it slowly sinks to your eye level. “We know how Variks feels about reuniting the Houses. It’s practically his life goal. As long as he focuses on the Fallen and we manage to stay out of trouble, I think we’ll come out in one piece.” You gently bump Vox’s plates and its Light flickers in a familiar, reassuring pattern. “Eyes up, Little Light.”

“Okay, okay. I’m countin’ on you.”

The following hours are spent in the dark, cool confines of the Wanderwing. Vox settles on a shelf as it brushes up on Eliksni language translations. You review database entries on the House of Wolves and its scattered members among the Reef. It seemed like a straightforward history lesson: the Kell of Wolves, Skolas, battled against the Reef until Variks subdued him and his followers. Variks then crowned Queen Mara as the new Kell and the remaining Wolves held her in reverence.

The Fallen had free reign to strip the ship graveyard of valuables. There was plenty of ether and housing. They could rebuild their ranks, whet their battle skills against Mara’s endless enemies, and thrive under her protection. Why would they look towards death if they could flourish in the Reef?

You shift the timeline. Look further back. Look before the Reef Wars, before Variks the Loyal, before the fall of Wolves, and Judgement’s last stand. It was like an endless rabbit hole, twisting your interest elsewhere with tales of tragedy and victory.

 _Fikrul the Fanatic._ A minimal paragraph on the former Archon Priest, supposedly exiled after he raged against the Great Machine and his race’s parasitic dependence on Servitors.

 _Servitors_. The holographic image of the obsidian sphere makes your fingers twitch reflexively. The booming groan of the machines ring hollowly in your memory banks. Sentient automatons. Built in the image of the Traveler. Desperately needed, and viciously protected by the Fallen. Without them…

You glance at the half-dormant Ghost. It’s just like you said earlier: The Traveler visited others before it reached humanity. How many Fallen died in the wars waged to retrieve their Great Machine? How many now will die because they believe it will still save them? Not wanting to interrupt Vox’s musings, you head over to the pilot’s seat and fiddle with a few dials, opening up a communication array.

“Guardian,” Variks greets. His voice crackles with slight annoyance. “I am only across the outpost. Is this really necessary?”

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I thought it would be rude to overstay our welcome.”

Variks makes a clacking noise and you’re inclined to think that it stems from amusement. “Nonsense. What is on your mind?”

You pull up the database articles on the tablet and flick through them idly. “Formulating a theory on why the Fallen want to be Guardians. Vox thinks it’s far-fetched. I think maybe they see the Light as an alternative to surviving on ether. Do you know how many Prime Servitors exist at the outpost?”

Variks hums in thought. And then he answers, “One.”

“Just one?”

“Functional, yes.”

“How did your race survive before the Collapse?”

“Most records tell that the Great Machine blessed us. Technology. Foundations. Under its Light, we were more resilient and content. Ether was plentiful. Servitors merely aided with conversion and resupply. Now they are essential.” You can almost imagine him twisting his claws together, overlapping and clinging to the staff. “You speak true. Some Eliksni think we are tethered to them.”

“Right. Fikrul the Fanatic. He came up in my readings.”

“Well read.” His voice twists into undisguised scorn. “Do you partake in his madness?”

“He hated the Traveler, so I suspect he wouldn’t like Guardians much,” you reply. You tuck your legs underneath you and toy with your armband, running a finger over its coarse edges. “Did you know him?”

“Judgement once found sanctuary among Wolves. Fikrul had much hate for everything. Aspired for a new generation of Eliksni. Our existence relies on either of two choices: Ether or the Great Machine,” Variks says, the stiffness in his voice quickly melting into resignation.

You grip your Bond tightly. “Variks… can I come and see you?”

More clacking. “Curious. Why?”

You rack your mind furiously for an excuse. “I’ll-- I’ll let you see my ship.”

Variks lets out a sudden bark of laughter. “Look outside.” There’s a loud, rapping noise on the darkened windows and you quickly lower the blinds. The tall, limber Fallen studies the exterior intensely, occasionally knocking the staff on the armored metal. He presses his face right up the glass and another chuckle drifts over the voice channel as he locks eyes with you. “Guardian, what a pitiful ship,” Variks comments.

“Hey, thanks.”

“Take it to the scrapyard?” he asks hopefully.

“No.”

“Hmph. Then come with me.”

* * *

Vox agrees to stay within the ship and monitor the communication links. It transmats you into pale yellow robes and a matching helmet, momentarily fussing about which Bond would be appropriate for evening wear. It finally selects the Bond with hints of emerald green, and then drops you in the hangar bay without another word.

You check your sidearms as Variks looms over you without malice. Merely alerting you of his presence as his arms fold over one another. He favors his weight on the staff, the silver mesh mask swaying with the practiced movement, and he openly regards your visor. Then he turns and begins walking in an unfamiliar direction.

What _is_ that noise?

“There is no name in my language,” Variks replies when you question him about that low and constant clacking sound reverberating from his chest. “It fills silence in a conversation. Other times, it is how Eliksni express mirth. I believe Cayde-6 calls it ‘chatter’.” He does it again for effect.

Variks ushers you into the maintenance-designated docks, slipping past crewmen and royal guards alike, often breaking into an unexpected sprint as he darts from ship to ship. You follow at a slower, more leisurely pace. His four eyes track you as you glide between extended wings and land quietly next to him in the shadow of a heavy-set raid ship. “Are we not allowed here?” you whisper.

“These pilots think I would strip their precious metal.” He scowls. “To accuse House Judgement of such banal pastimes is--” Heavy footsteps sound in your direction and Variks quickly presses himself closer to the plane underbelly. You have no time to hide, or even Blink, when a handful of Mara’s soldiers round the corner.

The leader of the group simply nods. “Guardian.”

You nod back. They move along. Variks eventually returns himself to his former height. One of his organic limbs reaches out and grabs your hand. “Come faster,” he says, tugging you insistently towards the test flight platforms. A timid railing is the only thing between you and the expanse of space. To your surprise, Variks suddenly hops over the bars and lands on a smaller platform, nestled away between steel structures and pipes. He beckons at you.

You swing your legs over the railing and Vox crashes through the comms, shrieking in your auditory receptors, “Guardian, what are you--”

And you drift gracefully as the Light guides your descent, landing on the tips of your toes.

“I’m okay, Vox,” you reply softly, turning to look at the vast Reef landscape. Silent, steel giants amidst glittering, forlorn dust clusters. “Are you seeing this?”

“Yeah. It’s… endless.”

Without breaking away from the breathless landscape, you kneel down. Palms placed on your thighs, head held high, spine drawn upwards marionette-style. Variks lowers himself to the ground, too, however he sets the staff across an upright knee like a soldier and his rifle. He crooks his head to the side and studies your enraptured silence.

“Brink of Voidwalker,” he murmurs absentmindedly. “And still? After all these months?”

His rasping voice shatters the trance. _Silent. Painted. Brink of Voidwalker._ “You told the Vanguard how to find me,” you say softly. “You told Ikora Rey.”

“Guardians are not immune to struggle, no?” Variks hesitates. “It was a secret? Then I am sorry for breaking your trust.”

“Some battles… are meant to be fought privately.”                                 

“And yet you told me.”

You look at him. His bright eyes have not left your face since the conversation began. The tension between the two of you stretch and stretch and threatens to rebound fiercely. You shakily smile, even though he won’t see it past your helmet. “Variks the Loyal,” you chide lightly, “you promised to listen, didn’t you?”

His relieved chuckle scrapes against your auditory receptors, soothing and gentle. The Fallen waves a hand at the violet-hued nebulas and its silver stars. “You fear the infinite. Expansion. Space without boundaries.”

“We call it the Void.”

“Does it sing to you?”

“It is only darkness. It is colder than anything I’ve ever felt.”

“Then what warms you?”

Your hands curl into fists, the stiff leather fabric digging past your wiring. The Light trembles and then bursts forth in orange tongues of flames. It engulfs your figure, drenching you in its molten heat from head to toe. As if it could burn away the fear wedged between faith and progress. Another deep breath, and the Light blossoms from your shoulder blades as elegant golden wings, all-consuming and wondrous.

The urge to take flight rails against the world. Dive into the abyss. Burn everything in your path. Become the morning dawn.

You slowly reach out to Variks and with his hesitant approval, you set your scorching palm against his helmet. The searing rage to consume suddenly rekindles as muted solace. Like the sun’s kiss after a long winter. The gleaming exit of an abysmal labyrinth. _Forgiveness._ A low growl rumbles through his body as the Eliksni presses harder against your hand to seek Light in its whole and pure and lawless state.

And then the heat recedes, like it always does.

The wings burn for another moment before withering away into stardust.


	4. Festival of the Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Variks reminisces on his prior meetings with the Guardian // The aftermath of Dawnblade

Past the ruined house banners which offer Variks the barest minimum of privacy, he glimpses an individual in long, crimson robes examining one of his rare merchandise. He does not know their face as it hides beneath a mask with protruding tusks and horns in some horrible expression. It is the Festival of the Lost, the celebration of the deceased. Remembrance and legacy for those who earned such honors.

Under their hands, the vermillion symbol of the House Devils yawns awake. The person shows the Warlock Bond to someone that Variks cannot see, conversing in a language he cannot perceive. He shifts slightly-- ah, a Ghost. The Eliksni pushes past the torn verdant ribbons and growls a greeting, ducking his head in acknowledgement. To his great amusement, the Ghost immediately darts behind the Guardian.

They remove the mask and Variks immediately recognizes the distracted splash of yellow ochre paint on their face. This is the one with no name and no voice. She greets the vendor with a wave of her hand.  “Trading goods, yes?” Variks asks, relaxing in the known presence. “Something worthwhile to catch your eye?”

The Ghost glances at the Exo as the light cores in her mouth flash in a pattern. Then she points at her tortured mask. “She wants to know if you have any Festival themed items,” it says.

“Costumes are not for Eliksni,” Variks confesses. “Symbols and colors as our way of life, not for a festival.”

The Guardian runs her fingers across her forehead. “She says that you have paint on your helmet,” it says. “Is it relevant to your traditions?”

A low click-clacking noise emanates from his chest. Her inquisitiveness is well-known to him. “Come here, curiosity,” he purrs, “I would have your scent and I will share the House Judgement customs.”

Guardians were never known to shy away from a challenge. This one is no different. If her Ghost had hands, it would have dragged her halfway across the solar system but it merely flits worriedly as she makes her way around the stall. She tilts her head up. Bold and unafraid.

Variks ducks his head next to hers and tries in vain to find her scent-- but she is an Exo, and aromas do not cling to metal. Focusing his senses, he can taste the Light within her. It is not unlike ether except ever so slightly charred and burnt, which he attributes to her dawnbright power. His claws scrape lightly over her covered collar, knowing that he could shred this flimsy fabric if he wished.

The Fallen rips himself away before he loses himself in these uncouth thoughts. Variks retrieves the vial of acrylics from one of his various satchels and daubs a claw in the lush verdant paint. He drags the blunt side of his painted claws on the Exo’s face, drawing similar symbols as the ones on his crown. “House Judgement brokers peace within the Eliksni,” he lectures. “So we must listen, but we must _know_ who speaks. Colors are important. Devils, red for their bloodlust. Wolves, blue for their midnight hunts. Kings, gold for their crowns.”

The light cores in her mouth blink on and off. “What about Judgement?” the Ghost translates.

“Judgement has green,” Variks says, wiping his hand on his satchel and shooing the Guardian to the other side of the table, “because our homeworld was once green.”

 _Do you have any Warlock Bonds with the Judgement symbol?_ asks the mute Exo.

He stares for a long moment. “None,” he finally says, gripping the staff and holding it close to his cloaked chest. A meaningless barrier between him and the lightbound pair, a Guardian and the Ghost. In his peripheral, he notes the ebb and flow of festival goers, masked and cloaked. Eager to hide their identities. This is a sort of entertainment he could not enjoy. He _must_ be Variks the Loyal, of House Judgement and no one else. He repeats, this time more forcefully, “ _None_.”

Fortunately, she does not take offense. The Guardian purchases the Devil’s Bond and waves goodbye, the contrast of green and yellow on her face stark in the festival lights. Variks spies the Ghost talking rapidly with the silent Guardian, no doubt discouraging her from lurking near future Fallen. He glances over his shoulder to the swaying banners, distressed and aged beyond their years.

* * *

The presence of the Light is felt strongly at the outpost. Variks thinks he alone is privy to the sensation until he learns of Fallen casualties. He scans the battlefields reports on planets he has never visited, dozens of Fallen dead at the hands of opponents far stronger than them. They are distant from marked territories and were not acting upon the Queen’s orders. Mara’s frigid temper drives him to explain the phenomenon. Lingering aftereffects of the Festival? A prophecy he has yet to discover? For some reason, all he can think about is the painted Guardian and her Light.

* * *

Later, she confesses that she does not want to be a Voidwalker even though the innate arcane nature strives towards the dark energy.

Her Ghost, named quite aptly ‘Vox’, translates this. The Fallen asks why she chooses to tell him.

“House Judgement listens,” Vox says softly, its eye never leaving the Guardian, “so you may listen to her.”

* * *

You lean back on your forearms and watch the Fallen reach for one of the many pouches on his belt. With two claws he unfurls a long, tattered strip of cloth. You recognize the faded white glyphs of House Judgement against a dark emerald background. The fabric and texture do not match Varik’s robes, but you think perhaps they were torn from the banners that hang in his home.

He holds the archaic cloth in front of your face like he’s dangling a prize. “I am giving this to you,” he says sternly. “It is yours.”

“What? Why?”

“Neither you nor the Ghost have a clear scent. Your equipment is sterile. You are machine in the middle of a junkyard. It is natural among the Eliksni to know others’ scents. If we are meant to be allies in the onset days, I must be able to account for your presence. This--” he says as he gently knots it around your right arm, opposite to the Warlock Bond-- “will do in the meantime.”

Variks finishes and then wraps his limbs around his chest. You observe how he keeps his organic limbs tucked underneath the prosthetics. The Fallen can regrow arms as they advance from docked Dregs but perhaps the regenerative ability fades with maturity. You make a note to ask Vox later.

Sensing his vulnerable ease, you finally remove your helmet and set it to the side. Making direct eye contact with the alien doubles the unanswered atmosphere. What bridges your relationship with this Fallen? Is it respect or fascination?

“Out of every Guardian who comes and visits the outpost,” you muse, “why did you ask for my help? I’m certainly not the most well-versed. A few hours ago, I couldn’t even speak. The Vanguard might have stepped in.”

“To your leaders, I am only Fallen.” Variks answers slowly. “You… partake in my traditions. You accept my methods. I give you a part of me,” he says, gesturing to the scrapped banner on your arm, “and you take it. What stirs your courage?”

You trail your hands over the helmet’s ridges. “You always seemed so lonely. It was not out of pity, dear Variks. I wanted to be your friend. Your ally. Whatever mattered. I imagined talking to you about your homeworld, what the Eliksni were like when you lived with the Great Machine.”

You hesitate to continue. Variks tilts his head patiently.

“Warlocks are scholars. There is one who studies the Vex. And another, a member of the Vanguard called Osiris, who went to the Hive.”

“Osiris. I know this name,” Variks says, tasting the syllables on his tongue. “Guardian, where is yours?”

“My name? Lost to the books, I’m sure. My systems are uncommon and old. They say I should update my mainframes or transfer… but then I might start forgetting the important things.”

The comms link sparks awake as Vox the Ghost jumps back into the connection. “Come back and recharge, Guardian,” it suggests. “My readings are saying that you’re at dangerously low levels of energy.” Summoning the Dawnblade saps your stamina. Through the haze you acknowledge that Varik’s calm demeanor, however calculated, also pacifies the constant high of Light-wrought adrenaline.

“We’re on our way, Vox. See you soon.” Variks lurches to his feet and stretches with a preening whine. The two of you leap back to the main platforms and repeat the same route to the docking bay. There are less people as the cycle draws to quarter-close, and the Fallen remains by your side for a considerable amount of time, suddenly and seemingly unafraid of being seen. He tells you more about Fikrul the Fanatic, and how he had witnessed the exile of the once-esteemed figurehead.

When he speaks about House Judgement, he often delves into his native tongue, sharing terms and phrases that you desperately try to encode in your memory banks despite the fatigue. “Don’t worry, Guardian,” he coos. “Plenty of time to learn.”

The Wanderwing’s battered outline draws near. “I don’t search for knowledge because of courage,” you admit, canting your gaze to the side. “Just curiosity. I told you about these Warlocks. Asher, he and his Ghost were infected with Vex technology. Osiris… well, no one knows where he is. That makes him dangerous.”

Variks tilts his head. “You are afraid to share their fate,” he rumbles.

“There’s a price to knowledge.”

With a gentle touch, he guides your gaze back to him. “Do you think that I will harm you, Guardian?”

“No.”

The Eliksni chatters. “Then be calm. Be still.” Variks lowers his head and bumps your forehead with his. It is an affectionate gesture which stems from custom or impulse or a mix of both. He thinks there are flecks of verdant paint on your cheek, but then convinces himself that he must be seeing things. His mind is spinning with the scent of his home on a body he has yet to learn.

 _I have made a mistake,_ Variks thinks deliriously as you close your eyes, oblivious to his agonized delight. _I have made such a beautiful mistake._ He unconsciously strokes the ripped banner on your arm. You are not Fallen. You are Exo; you are machine with Light flooding your veins.

A sigh rattles through his body, bewitching and utterly at ease. Variks croaks, “Be well, Guardian. You bear the colors of Judgement. You are welcome among my House.”


	5. Io

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guardian receives a distressed message from Io.

“Vox! Vox! Find your Guardi _-izzzzzzt--_ instant. This is supremely important! I thi _-izzzzzzt--_ ”

The frantic squawking from the ship’s communication links jolts you out of sleep. You dumbly regard Vox as it hovers inches away from your face, and then you drag yourself out of bed. Blinking away static, you collapse in the captain’s seat and patch into the call. “Guardian speaking. Who is this?”

“What? Who’s speaking? What have you done wi _-izzzzzzt--_ ”

“Calculating coordinates,” Vox announces. “The transmitting line originates from Io.”

“Blast it, of course I’m on I _-izzzzzzt--_ haven’t moved from this spot si _-izzzzzzt--_ ”

The call dissolves completely into white noise and Vox dives into the mainframe to improve reception. Meanwhile, the Wanderwing projects a holographic image of the moon, Io. You recognize the whorl-like pattern of pastel greens and yellows on its surface, and the smooth crater of the Traveler’s residence, a long, long time ago. The zealous voice madly returns in the middle of another sentence, clear and concise.

“--realigned before the next lunar phase. Vox, can you hear me? Where is my assistant?”

Though you’re not really a research assistant, the nickname sticks. It’s been almost a complete solar cycle since you last ran errands for the eccentric Warlock.

“Asher Mir? This is Vox’s Guardian. I had a new voice box installed,” you explain, flicking the interior lights on.

“Really? Congratulations are in order. However, I have much more pressing matters which require, apparently, your attention. Dozens of Fallen recently arrived with the sole intention of stealing my equipment and data receivers. I reported these complications immediately to the Vanguard and then they redirected me to you.” Asher takes a deep, frustrated breath. “Now why would they do that?”

“What sort of equipment did they steal? Relevant to which project?”

“Synthetic Light,” says Asher, and you can hear that infamous scowl over the call. “Don’t you remember?”

After being irradiated with the Traveler’s energy, hordes of Taken and Vex alike were drawn to the influx of power. From what true Light poured through the experimental synthesizer, you’d managed to hold against the malicious races. It was a harrowing experiment which ultimately failed in the end. It didn’t seem possible to create Light but you knew that Asher never stopped looking for positive results.

You grudgingly admit, “We might be involved in this situation.”

“Explain,” the cranky Awoken demands. “At once.”

Drumming your fingers on the console, you say, “There’s been an influx of Fallen attempting to become Guardians so they might prevent the extinction of their race.” The silence that follows has nothing to do with the signal strength pulsing on the dashboard. You spin the holograph a few times until its colors melt into one another. “Asher? You still with us?”

“Yes. Right. I’m not… often speechless.” He clears his throat and then resumes his shrewd and questionably endearing cadence. “Becoming quite the researcher yourself, eh? The Fallen are benign at most but I suppose every Warlock has to start somewhere. Well, if you are attached to the situation, I recommend that you come at once and deal with this matter upfront. I will not tolerate theft, and least of all by the Fallen!”

“Asher, it’s not that simple,” Vox pipes up. “We’re at the Reef outpost and there’s the matter of dealing with the Fallen _here_ \--"

“They bring House of Wolves banners,” he says cuttingly. “Whatever your problems may be, they have come to Io. Understand? Excellent. Don’t keep me waiting long, assistant!” And then Asher Mir hangs up.

* * *

News about Io coincides with the startling, albeit expected, reports of Wolves abandoning their posts on various planets, effectively eliminating Queen Mara’s surveillance and leverage. While Variks acts as the buffer between Mara and yourself, her displeasure with the lack of progress is deeply felt through the liaison. Variks readily agrees to accompany you.

He ducks his head to avoid the low ceiling of the Wanderwing and clambers into the co-pilot’s seat as you wait for approval from the outpost flight control. “What’s with the bag?” you ask, nodding at the lumpy satchel he cradles close to his chest. Variks wordlessly opens it. It’s filled to the brim with ether canisters. “Are you going to have enough?”

“Vox kindly transmatted another dozen into the hold,” Variks rumbles. “And a few other necessities.”

Green light for takeoff. Once you’re at the outskirts of the Reef, you let Vox take over the controls and direct the ship towards Jupiter. The voyage lasts for half a cycle and you return to the mattress to finish recharging.

As you lay on your side, you watch Variks prowl curiously around the hold. He occasionally glances your way, but you show no sign of ire. His four-eyed gaze catches a flash of dark green on your left bicep. He disappears for a moment into the cramped storage and returns with armfuls of blankets, and then dumps them directly opposite from your mattress. Variks settles down with a content purr. “Do all Eliksni do this?” you ask, stifling a laugh.

“Nesting is not an uncommon practice on Ketches,” Variks replies, referring to the enormous passenger ships that housed thousands of nomadic Fallen. “It is less custom and more like routine.”

“Have you ever been to Io?”

“No. I have heard stories. What is it like?”

You smile. “It’s beautiful. One would think it’s barren because of its cliffs and valleys, but there’s unique plant life. In some places, you can see where the Light still lingers.”

“What was the Traveler doing there in the first place?”

“No one knows. Asher thinks it wanted to store its power there before it returned to Earth when the Darkness descended. Who knows what would have happened if it didn’t leave Io.”

Variks slowly picks at his worn, gray blankets as he mulls over your words. He sets his head against the wall with a world-weary expression. “The Great Machine saved your kind. And it continued to protect you as it slept. It created Ghosts and Guardians in the same dying breath.” Variks closes his eyes. “It chose wisely,” he murmurs, leaving no room for further conversation.

You don’t remember falling asleep. Variks shakes your shoulder gently to prepare for descent. While the sunset shades of Jupiter stream through the windows, the Fallen grabs his staff and a holstered rifle as you sling a favored sniper over your shoulder. Brittle winds and groaning, ancient trees respond to your arrival. Variks remains close at your side; his head swivels to and fro, looking for possible enemies despite your blank radar. At your behest, he strikes a glittering, silver plant and watches in awe as it shatters into a thousand shards. You point over a ridged crest and tell him that the Vex are prone to the gulches. The Taken, you say as you jab a thumb over your shoulder, prefer high ground.

Asher Mir’s field lab eventually makes its appearance. It is sheltered in the center of what resembles a huge, skeletal ribcage. Various gray cables drape over the fossilized bones and slither next to ditches filled with crackling, pearl-white gels.

Vox drifts ahead and greets the grumpy Awoken Warlock with familiarity; the two are like-minded when it comes to intelligent life and fieldwork. You think Vox prefers Guardians who didn’t throw themselves in the line of fire. Furthermore, the Ghost has enough wit to keep up with Asher’s scathing nihilism, and the Warlock respects your shared perseverance as a mute Guardian. He respected Golden Age technology for its archaic influence and expressed sympathy for a near-impossible hunt for a new voice box.

You catch the tail end of their discussion as you and Variks slow your approach, not wanting to startle him with the seven-foot tall Eliksni. “--thinks we should return to the City but I remain adamant that we finish our project,” says Asher. He waves his working arm at a pool of lightning behind him.

“You should listen to Hypatia,” Vox says amusedly, though he doesn’t ask the whereabouts of Asher’s Ghost. “The results of one experiment just leads to the hypothesis of another.”

“You know me too well, Vox. Is your Guardian here?”

“Hello, Asher,” you greet, hoping the smile carries in your voice. “Long time no see.”

Without tearing his electric eyes away from Vox, Asher remarks, “Intonation is mildly flat. Calibrate amplitude outputs and the rate of processing while you’re at it.” He at last turns around. Wild blonde hair, shockingly blue eyes, and echoes of galaxies under his skin--- exactly as you remembered. He smiles slightly. “Regardless, I’m thoroughly impressed. Good job.”

“Thanks,” you stammer, unused to the compliments. “Uh, Variks helped me. This is Variks the Loyal, of House Judgement.”

Asher Mir finally drinks in the sight of Variks towering tall and intimidating. His right arm, consumed by Vex technology, begins to twitch uncontrollably. His lips part but no sound comes out. You realize that he’s speechless again when the Eliksni steps forward with a slight bow.

“Eager to help,” he purrs. “The Guardian is a strong fighter, yes?”

The Warlock blinks a few times. “Bearably so, as a Solar-powered Warlock. Which reminds me, Guardian, Ikora asked me to assist with your training. Something about learning how to embrace the Void with what poetic flourish and how she’s stuck at the City--”

“Wait, wait,” you stammer. “I thought you channeled Arc energy.”

Asher scoffs. “What use is a Warlock if they can only use one sort of element? You must manage with dark matter, anti-gravity, thermodynamics, and not to mention--”

“How about after we retrieve your tech?” you interrupt, thinking that you would immediately return to the outpost with no time for the Void. After all, Variks had his responsibilities at the Reef. Mara might be further provoked.

“Fine, whatever. Listen, Vox, I am transmitting the whereabouts of the rouge Fallen and more importantly, my equipment. Take care not to damage the synthesizer. I still have so much work to complete.”

* * *

Variks tracks the Wolves to an abandoned excavation site about twelve clicks away from their last known position. Despite the heavy machinery and equipment, they covered quite the distance from Asher Mir’s wrath, and the three of you crouch behind an expired satellite dish. Late afternoon calms the winds and the distant, melodic song of phaseglass trickles over the mountains.

“Guardian, I’ve some troubling news,” Vox grumbles. “I tried to run an analysis of the environment but there’s an interfering frequency that prevents me from activating either the radar _or_ the comms link. Once you enter the area, I won’t be able to communicate with you.”

You look at Variks. “Would you be able to talk to the Wolves?”

He shakes his head. “Look closely. I see three Captains. Three Captains to eliminate.” Resting a heavy hand on your back, Variks gestures to the scavengers milling about. You aim the scope at the valley below. It takes a few sweeps of the area, but you eventually spy the telltale bulk and height. Midnight blue cloaks drag along the yellow dust as the leaders, marked for death, monitor the stolen equipment. “Once they are removed, I command them to obey the Queen, not their beliefs. I will help to suppress them.”

“Be careful, both of you,” Vox says, “All sensors are shut out. It’s total blackout down there.”


	6. Blackout

When the initial Exo design was presented, most engineers were concerned about its synthetic circulation system. Oil and petroleum quickly presented as liabilities, flammable and slick, and future advancements moved away from fossil fuels. Early Exos were solar-powered. Others were reminiscent of steam engines. Near the end of the Golden Age, the robotic race was stable enough to depend solely on circuits and renewable energy.

You do not bleed when blades and bullets penetrate your armor. Sparks fly when wires rip free of their dented or fractured plating. You press against a crate of research equipment and ignore the faint smell of ozone leaking from your shoulder, which caught the brunt of multiple daggers.

Suddenly, half a dozen Dregs crash to the ground in front of you, weapons flying from their claws, and you look up just in time to see Varik’s shadow hurtle over the cliff face. You would prefer not to seriously injure the Fallen enemies, and it seems he might have the same idea. Although Variks hopes to communicate with them later, nonlethal attacks places you at a severe disadvantage.

When the disturbed, choking dust clears, you see a Fallen Captain emerges from one of the tunnel entrances. He spies you, snarls at your timid position, and then unsheathes his blades. You raise the sniper rifle. Two shots take out the shimmering shield. Another two brings him to his knees. Ether gas immediately spills from his open wounds.

A smattering of gunfire forces you to rethink the situation. Too much open space, too many opportunities to be blindsided; so you make the split-second decision to dive into the tunnels. Blindly seeking the remaining Captains. Hoping the echoing shrieks in the distance belong to Varik’s victory.

But you’re not fast enough to dive behind cover as ionized charges slam into your back and you stumble, red tinting your vision. Glancing back finds another growling Captain, one who prefers shock rifles. You throw yourself into a forked underpass, switching from the rifle to the sidearm.

Vox shimmers into view, keeping in pace with your frantic sprint.

“You can’t be here,” you hiss.

“I can heal you--”

“They’ll kill you if they see you! Go, now!”

Vox blinks back into your headset.

The last Captain waits as you tear yourself from the encroaching darkness, screeching to a halt in another cramped cavern. There’s barely any time to dodge when swords flash and carve a deep gash across your armored robes, scraping Exo plating enough for an explosion of sparks. Your vision fills with static and a pained keen erupts from your throat, cutting off as it overloads the voice box.

Then to make things worse, the second rifle-bearing Captain teleports into view with a thick, fading streak of ether wisp. The Fallen leaders shriek gleefully. _Easy prey._ You close your hand over empty air. The sidearm had been tossed aside. _Bad luck._ If you reach for the sniper, you’re dead. Their hulking silhouettes pace across the sunlit entrance.

Through the aching pain, you glean faint traces of Vox’s transmat as it silently begs to heal you. “No!” you wheeze. “Vox, please don’t--” To dissuade the Ghost, you hurl down a rift knowing that it will only mute the aches which ripple through your body. The Light suspends your nerve sensors momentarily and you force yourself to _think_. Not enough room to toss grenades and survive the blast radius. You flick your eyes to the ceiling but just like the rest of the tunnels, it’s too low to glide over them. You ball your right hand into a fist and bring it close to your chest.

 _Just this once,_ you think to yourself. _Just this once, let me blink._

The summoned Void trickles into your limbs and fingers. It greedily steals the Light’s warmth to fuel its own power. However, you’d used up most of the energy for the rift and your body flickers like a bad reception. Not enough to blink. Not enough for even that short distance to the bright escape. It takes everything to stay conscious. A purple haze begins to coat the edges of your vision. You see one of the Captains raise a shock rifle, and you shut your eyes, willing yourself to _blink_ before--

There is an explosion of unbearable, scalding _heat_ \--

When the shrieking in your head tapers to an emptiness south of your waist, Fallen howls echo throughout the through the warm darkness. Death is not a stranger to the Guardians, but _pain_ is a novel sensation time and time again.

White flames etch into your plates and wires. _Burning._ You’re overheating from both the inside and out. _Shutdown imminent._ Let the Sun fade, let the Void remain. It is murky, unwelcome, cold, numbing, and unfeeling; it drowns the fever; and it might have saved your immortal life.

Through the crack on your helmet, you blearily witness a three-pronged staff burst through one of the Captain’s throats before sinking into the other’s mandible, crushing their flesh and skeleton with practiced ease. They die with arms flailing weakly as Variks draws himself to his full height, baring his unmasked fangs in an unrestrained snarl of contempt.

The Void writhes within you and _fears_ his scorching fervor. It wants you to blink far, far away.

 _Vari-izzzt--_ The name bubbles in your throat, garbled and frantic, on an incessant repeat and it does not stop even as his gaze falls upon you. He staggers towards you. _Vari-izzzt-- Vari-izzzt--_ Not even when he drops his staff with a hollow clatter. _Vari-izzzt--_ A low hiss escapes his body. Claws flexs helplessly over the smoking remnants of your legs.

Vox finally trembles into reality. A high-pitched whine sounds from your voice box and you reach for the Ghost.

“It’s over, now, Guardian,” Vox croaks. “Rest. I’ll heal you. I promise.” Its Light shakily works at your systems and starts preparing your body for recharge. Limbs fall slack. Light cores dimmed to an unconscious, honeyed yellow. Tactile touch is the last to leave; you desperately cling to the sensation of soft fur under your fingers.

Variks hushes you and strokes his claws across your painted cheek. You look so small, so frail compared to your enemies. “Bring the ship closer to us,” he tells Vox. “Tend to her in privacy.”

“Will she…”

His arms tighten around your sleeping form. “She is safe.”

Vox cannot bring itself to question his honesty. Instead, it retreats into the pocket dimension where it brings the Wanderwing engines roaring to life. Vox patches calls to Asher Mir and Petra Venj with slightly varied reports. The former immediately makes plans to relocate closer to the reclaimed excavation site. Silence rebounds from the Reef.

Variks knows that the Ghost will need to land outside of the blackout zone. He steps over the bodies of his kindred and comes face-to-face with dozens of soldiers outside the cavern. Evening has since descended and luminescent eyes peer from all sides in the creeping shadows. Variks ignores the threatening growls from all around and heads towards the mass of Dregs and Vandals blocking the exit route.

The Guardian in his arms knows him as an Eliksni vendor. A relic of idyllic times.

Variks the Loyal stalks slowly towards the underlings. Drawn as tall and commanding as a Captain. The battle-won staff gripped tightly in one hand as the other three cradle the Light-bringer. A blistering, bitter gaze filled with malice. Gray lips drawn back in a silent, feral snarl. A murmur of acknowledgement spreads through the crowd. They are many, but they will not win this fight.

All remaining Fallen part and cower before the Warden of the Prison of Elders.

* * *

 “Would you like to transmat her into the ship?”

“You can carry her.”

Variks nods. He removes himself from the shadow of a cliff face as he hobbles to the Wanderwing. The Ghost maintains pace, occasionally running a scan on the Guardian’s health and recovery. The stasis sleep will promote a stable recovery, although your mental state might be disorganized. Vox knew your panic in the moment of certain death. Even now, it sees moments of uncertainty in your rapid eye movement and muscle spasms.

The Eliksni places you on the mattress and kneels at your side, watching diligently for any sign of consciousness. Vox transmats away your helmet and armor, and begins its work. A melodic hum fills the cargo hold as it repairs your damaged legs, one cable and nerve at a time. Variks places his hand on your bicep, uneasily plucking at the Judgement banner strip, and then he sets his chin on the mattress edge.

Vox glances over. “You’re hurt,” it remarks, noting the thin gashes along Varik’s unprotected arms. Stains of liquid ether have since dried on his pallid skin and robes.

“I will not scar,” Variks replies. His shoulders tense slightly. “But I will speak to the Wolves before midnight. They must know the consequences of falseness. Betrayal. Rest assured the Captains have paid with their lives.” The Ghost abruptly stops repairs and the Eliksni glances over. Its shell curls inward; its cyclops-like eye becomes dull. “What troubles you?” asks Variks.

“She’s afraid of the Void. The Guardian tried to escape, but it wasn’t enough. Maybe if we trained more… maybe if I pushed her to use the Void, to learn how to blink…”

“It cannot be your fault.”

Vox regards the Eliksni miserably. “She’s afraid of you, too.”

An empty, endless sensation echoes in Varik’s chest. He wants to smother this dark, dark chasm with bloodlust or rage. Instead, he looks at the unconscious Guardian and shoves himself backwards into the freezing, makeshift nest of worn blankets. A semblance of belonging. Variks tucks his claws close to his body, hiding them under his prosthetic arms. “Why do you say this, Vox the Ghost?” he rasps.

“I don’t know why she trusts you. Whatever you do--” Its voice cracks with an emotion he does not know yet, something Vox later calls _desperation_ \-- “don’t hurt her. Please, don’t hurt her.”


	7. Voidwalker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asher Mir tries to teach the Guardian to handle the Void

“Try again.”

You exhale sharply and curl your fist close once more, tucking it against your chest, before launching yourself over one of the Rupture’s jagged crests.

The Void first numbs the tips of your fingers, then your limbs, and then it drags your vision into the deepest, darkest shade of purple. _Fade to black_. Your body tears itself out of liminality and you tumble on a well-trodden patch of eroded rock, kicking up dirt and dust into the arid winds. _Impact._ Void and air abandon you. The light cores rattle noisily amidst your wiring. Surely some were knocked loose.

“Adequate marks on your launch and transition, but the landing is poor,” Asher Mir says as he yanks you to your feet with his good arm. “Think about your destination. Hold it in your mind, grasp it in your fist, and then simply _blink_ there.”

“You make it sound easy,” you mutter, brushing off the chalky grime off your armor. He barked all morning and afternoon. “Warlocks have preferences with their abilities. Why can’t I just be Dawnbright?”

“Because--" Tension immediately locks up his muscles and shoulders-- “your lack of confidence in the Void only hampers your progress.”

Dozens of failed attempts and hours of being berated by Asher bubbles up in your chest as frustration and indignation. Is it your imagination, or is that Vox in the headset, reciting about how high stress levels? You abandon all form of formality and camaraderie. “You’re such a hypocrite! You _hate_ Solar Light. How come you get to decide what I should use?”

“I know how to control the Dawn,” he snaps, bristling angrily. “Being a Guardian means being able to control all of our strengths and weakness. I am not afeard of the Void’s gifts. We can move through walls and enemies, we can attune to the chaos or the hunger of what the Light demands. You just need to try harder!”

“It’s hopeless, Asher! Do you get it? I can’t do it!”

The words echo across the ancient plains.

“We’ll take a break,” the Warlock says tersely, his bright, blue eyes narrowed. “Go.”

You waste no time. Any longer in his caustic company and you might regret what follows. You summon your sparrow and speed towards the distant Wanderwing, as your breaths come quick and frantic, the emotion unfamiliar and unwanted. You want to burn it-- the frustration, helplessness, anger broiled together-- so it never returns.

The excavation site blurs past in the colors of Io and House Wolves banners. Emerald green winks past. Veering off course, you brake the sparrow only paces from where you’d surveyed the area only days earlier and remove your helmet. Variks shifts from his lax form on the high perch and slowly clambers down to the ground, using his staff to steady his balance.

“You look conflicted,” he remarks. “What bothers you?” When a scowl answers his question, he tilts his head knowingly. “Perhaps a walk will clear your mind.” Variks extends a couple of hands to help you off the sparrow.

Vox’s rambling recollections of how Variks doted on your recovery echoes like the lingering claws on the small of your back. Subtle and slight, although wholly present. You know that he is attracted to the dual clarity and mystery of the Traveler’s Light within all Guardians. The Fallen awaits your redemption as if he would watch kindling.

“How goes with the Wolves?” you ask.

“They must return to their respective posts from wherever they used to patrol. Mara will send her most loyal to assume command.”

Variks no longer feels forced to speak in fragments around you; his prose rumbles smoothly and assuredly. The staff drags a shallow scar in the Io dirt, grinding a hushed, whispered message in sand.

“Some Wolves think, perhaps, it is time for prophecies to come true.”

“What do you mean?”

“House Rain predicts that the Great Machine will bestow a fierce and brave Eliksni leader to unite all. I scribe these records. I recite them. And I await the Kell of Kells.” The title lingers on his glossa in a mixture of respect and bitterness. How long has Variks waited for this chosen one? “The promise of power becomes even stronger,” Variks sighs.

Prospecting death encourages addiction and adrenaline among Guardians. Not even the Vanguard, not even stoic Zavala could be immune to the feeling of waking up, unscathed and alive. To be loved enough by a force as powerful as the Traveler, who could defy the cycle of death. “It’s not so simple,” you murmur, absentmindedly flexing your numb fingers. “There has to be a _prelude_ to death.”

For all that the Void imposes, it is still Light, and the Light in its cold and distant and infinite definition becomes a vise around your senses.

A low growl stirs from the Eliksni. “Explain.”

“Devotion. Bravery. Sacrifice. The Great Machine could not reward anything less.”

He grazes the wide blunt of a claw down the length of your forearm, hooking lightly in the dip between your thumb and finger. “The look in your eyes,” he says softly, “as if you are far, far away.” Such a gentle, wonderous voice-- guarded and soft-- coaxes the Void to subside.

“I am here, Variks.”

“Good.” The claw remains for a moment, a moment longer, and then retreats to fold across his chest.

* * *

“Guardian? Asher sent word. He’ll come to the Wanderwing shortly.”

* * *

The Awoken Warlock steps into the ship and wordlessly seats himself next to you.

He slides a small data flashdrive across the dashboard. You stop fidgeting with your tablet. “I’ve compiled a series of unique methods for Guardians who adhered to a less than traditional method of schooling. Some are self-taught. Some are forced to learn in the spur of the moment. And some are like you: Unwilling to listen to your teachers.”

You reach out and Asher’s hand darts out like a snake, his nails digging into the seams of your gauntlets and plating. You suddenly notice his untidy hair and unbuttoned frock. The shadows under his eyes accent the waspish, weary character Asher refuses to abandon.

“I do not wish to sit idle,” Asher says stiffly. “I do not want you to feel trapped, ever, whether by your abilities or your enemies. Your legs were destroyed. What happened at the excavation site must never happen again. If you care to consider these alternative techniques, I am willing to amend how I instruct-- that is, if you still need or accept my presence.”

Not one, but two Ghosts dance silently behind their Guardians. Vox and Hypatia communicate in a strange language: Broken then mended, a fusion of binary which works for the voice and the Vex-infected.

And somewhere among the convoluted, condescending speech, you manage to grasp Asher’s sincerity.

“Tell me why you are afraid of Void Light.”

* * *

_I have only ever died in violence._

_The edge of a sword. A bullet to the temple. Cracking my skull at the bottom of a cliff. Death is cold, and colder yet. Even the Light which brings me back is cold, until the moment I can stand on two feet again. Vox is warm. The Dawnbright is warm._

_I know that the Void does not mean death-- but it resembles it too much._

_And I do not like dying, Asher._


	8. Loyalties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guardian questions and determines loyalties.

“I don’t pretend to understand,” you say in a voice recently returned, “because I woke up as a Guardian. The Ghost found me in a wasteland.”

Variks swiftly translates to the dozens below. Bright eyes train on the towering Eliksni. Size is the typical determinate among Fallen ranks. In the absence of the Captains, Variks places himself atop the hierarchy. It shows in passing: Dregs and Vandals kneel in respect when he stalks past, and Wretches serve as his personal guards. Even now, you hear the whisper of electric on their blades. You can practically taste the ozone.

But Variks stands with you and Asher, for once united with Guardians against, and for the future of his kin.  

“The Wolves believe that death can award them with Light. You believe that it will make you stronger, perhaps even as strong as a Kell,” you continue.

Excitement ripples through the Wolves. Variks snarls a command for silence. His fierceness is as sudden as a strike-fire.

“The Traveler looks for bravery and sacrifice, not death. Someone who fights against impossible odds is not brave. The Eliksni who choose easy death rather than a worthwhile life are not brave.” You hold out your hands and summon golden flames which crawl up your forearms before dissipating in a violet gaseous haze. Asher wordlessly manifests a rod of pure, crackling Arc energy in his left hand. The lightning illuminates his unflinching expression; being a Stormcaller suits him.

“We devote our life to protecting the Light,” Asher Mir says. “It was always in our mind to serve the Light, and the Traveler knew this.”

“Your _Queen_ finds worth in your loyalty,” Variks hisses, and the Fallen scramble over and under each other to escape his wrathful gaze.

In his language, he does not have to speak slow. He is, after all, a scribe. Speech comes as quickly as breathing and bleeding ether. The only times he is speechless are times of dissent, when he must bite his tongue to agree with Mara, or when he regards the Guardian’s curiosity.

“You must be devoted and brave through all your life,” Variks declares. “The Great Machine could not bear the dishonor of self-annihilation. You bring shame to the Reef. Do better. Return to your ketches.”

The Fallen dart off in every direction, nervously chattering about their revised ideals. This is not the time for prophecies and mass deaths.

The Awoken Warlock arches his eyebrows. “Never imagined diplomacy would work among the Fallen.”

Variks chuckles, and then places his claws on your shoulders. He grazes his helmet against yours. For the first time, you place your hand against his cheek as his heavy touch lingers on your bonds, and he hums contentedly. His gaze scrapes to the side. “You see, Asher Mir, we can be a versatile species,” the Eliksni purrs.

* * *

You scratch your head. “I think it’s a form of farewell.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Asher snaps. “There is something more-- something _much_ more in his motions. Neither Taken nor Vex show any form of leniency nor convenience towards individuals of their own and different species. Eris would have similar conclusions for the Hive. Now, the Fallen have shown instances other than violence towards us.”

His stride picks up as the Awoken Warlock rambles about famous-turned-legendary tales about forsaken Vandals or Captains with docked arms. Brokering truces to unite against a common enemy. His Ghost Hypatia drifts next to his Vex side, occasionally scanning him with a crimson-stained light. You glance over your shoulder to the excavation site and then nearly collide with Asher when he stops in his tracks. He glares indignantly.

“Are you paying attention? Variks is different, yes, he himself acts as a merchant with Guardian wares. But this?” He wildly gestures to your entire figure, from helmet to boots. Then he points at the tattered Judgement ribbon around your arm. “ _This?_ ”

“What do you want me to say?” you say.

The Warlock is on the brink of exploding in frustration. “Variks is unique and he is incredibly dangerous. He serves Queen Mara and could be just as cruel as her. He imprisoned hundreds of his kin as trophies and amusement. He will stop at nothing, _nothing_ , to ensure the survival of the Fallen--”

Asher suddenly doubles over and coughs uncontrollably, the sound wet in the back of his throat. The ground flecks with crimson and white. Blood and… something else. “Asher!” Hypatia flies forward and douses him with a shower of Light, and you catch him before he collapses. He weighs less than you’d expected, and his lanky limbs jab at you.

Then he squeezes your hand. If touch could remove pain, Asher seems to be clinging to the hope as tight as possible. “Radiolarian fluid,” he wheezes fitfully. “It’s reached my lungs-- and-- my heart is next--"

Oh, Asher. Nihilistic, despondent, fatalistic Asher. You steal a glimpse at his Vex arm. Its movements are fluid and calm. How much of him has been consumed by machine? How much of the original Guardian is left? “There has to be… There has to be a cure,” you murmur. “Reverse the effects-- or at least stop them from spreading.”

He shakes his head wildly. The answer is clear. _I have tried everything._

His Ghost flicks her crimson gaze towards you. A moment later, Vox materializes from its dimension. “Asher will be okay,” it says, “but he needs to calm down to breathe properly. Humans usually destress as a response to comforting physical contact. Try it.”

Asher’s eyes are shut tight. You tentatively rest your shoulder against his and rest a hand on his curved back. Your Exo skin is as hard as sheet metal and lack any sort of malleable surface, but he eventually relaxes his vise-like grip (even if he doesn’t let go). Your eyes linger on the blood and radiolaria fluid he’d coughed up.

“He doesn’t feel pain,” Hypatia tells you in a distorted, crackling voice.

The Ghost doesn’t typically communicate with other Guardians, thanks to the infection. Her shell has the same silvery-blue sheen as a Fanatic; and her eye, as you’ve noted all this time, is bright red. However, when she looks at Asher, you swear that humanity-- and Light-- lingers within them.

“He only feels inevitability,” the Ghost continues. “Still, I believe in him.”

“Me too,” Vox whispers.

Asher opens his eyes and sneers weakly. “Flattery-- does nothing to solve my predicament.”

You squeeze his hand. He looks at you with a mix of embarrassment and gratitude.

Inhale.

Exhale.

“Are we having a moment?”

* * *

Variks watched the Wolves disappear into the skies.

He turns the communicator over in his hands, patiently waiting for the Crows to confirm transportation of all remaining ketches beyond Io’s orbit. The Guardian’s words hooked like barbs into the Fallen’s philosophies. They would chase death no more; not without angering the Great Machine or the Queen.

Variks lingers by the Wanderwing’s transmat pad, though he prefers the meditative walk through the pastel plains. Nighttime does not quell distant screams of Taken and Vex, but it offers peace of mind in solitude. He shuts his eyes briefly. It is said that some can sense the Traveler’s Light seeping through the ground.

He feels nothing.

He hears footsteps.

His silhouette is barely visible against the deep midnight sky while your exo plates reflects Jupiter’s colors. “Guardian,” Variks greets, surprised, and he bows slightly. He helps you jump up on a nearby stack of crates and chatters amusedly. “You forget quickly. We can talk like this,” he reminds, tapping on the earpiece. He sits with his back against the crate. “But… conversations in company offers clarity, yes? Do you look for something?”

It seems strange to look down on such a domineering creature: Variks’s shoulder brushes against your knees; his head levels with your waist. The shift in perception only further warps your confidence. There’s no way that someone as short or small as you could demand superiority. Vox might bring you back a dozen times before you could land a scratch on him.

You practically shrink inwards. “I wanted to talk. Um, actually, Asher asked me what it meant when we had our foreheads together. Earlier, as we parted ways.”

Variks hums. “The Eliksni recognize it as an gesture of good faith between bonded individuals. It could very well mean farewell. It also means camaraderie and trust beyond idle friendship. The Cayde-6 and I, for instance, are liaisons between our posts. We are not bonded. Not with Petra Venj, and not Mara, either. I work alongside the Awoken but they do not warrant such pledges.”

Tension seeps through the silence. “Why me?” you ask.

He pushes himself up and rests his arms heavily on either side of you. Vox pestered you about cleaning up before you’d ventured into the evening. Variks doesn’t seem to mind the dust or wrinkles on your Warlock robes. He ducks his head near your wrist and catches your scent on the Io winds, the sand, the sour trace of the Awoken known as Asher, and the trace of oxidized blood.

He keeps his eyes tilted upwards, like a new Guardian staring at the Traveler for the first time above Earth’s surface. “Why?” the Fallen echoes. “You, you are a Guardian who inspired the Fallen to abandon their Queen.”

“Variks--”

“Vox says that you are afraid of me. I do not know why.”

You shift your gaze away, but he coaxes it back with the tip of a delicate, metal claw. His prosthetics no longer hide. They are alive, awake, and seek the Judgement banner on your arm. “You killed those Captains,” you confess in a trembling whisper, “and I was scared of your wrath.”

“Why?”

“If the Vanguard or your Queen decides that we are enemies, Variks, I don’t think I could win.” You gently grasp his metal wrists; your fingers barely encircle the width. His eyes widen slightly. “Not against someone like you.”

_Do you think that I will harm you, Guardian?_

Only days passed since he’d inquired about your fears. Curiosity has transformed into the worst consequence for truth: Uncertainty. And because one had no control over their doubts, they shoved their attention towards evidence of fear. You lost your voice to scavenging Eliksni claws; you lost your past lives to masses of Fallen; and you did not trust someone with a history and an ambition like Variks.

Variks knocks his helmet against yours and in a split-second decision, he drops all of his defenses, as his kind do in moments of complete trust. His form drapes heavily against yours, and he strokes your arms in long, deft movements; he does not allow his claws to pierce or snag. “You are filled with Light,” he says. “Face-to-face, how could you not be victorious?”

Then he feels your fingers tighten around his furs, holding him even closer. “Because I don’t want to hurt you.” Golden eyes gaze deep into what the Eliksni could consider a soul as you continue: “But if violence meant that you could reunite your Houses--”

He cuts you off with a fierce whisper, “I could not harm you. I want concord, yes, and I want unity, and _you_.”

You feel perfect in his embrace. As if you were molded for him. A selfish thought, he knows, although his willpower has never been as pliant as it is in your hands. _This can’t be real._ Yet the texture of your clothes and skin seem too real. Yet the words keep flowing, tripping over his rasp.

“I want you,” Variks says again, almost in disbelief.

The communicator, discarded on a nearby crate, blinks silently.

“You take my colors. My customs, my traditions, my loyalty. I want you, in the same breath I bear Judgement.”

A shaky hand rests on his collar. Your fingers sweep against his ash-gray armor platings and Variks barely refrains from collapsing on the spot. “I believe in your heart,” you say softly. “And your kindness. If you would have me… I am yours.”

Variks the Loyal sinks to the ground and presses his forehead against your knees. He swears on the Light, the Great Machine, and on the tattered emerald banners which flutter in the winds: “No matter how our futures might diverge, I am yours.”


End file.
